Paint flakes

The paint is flaking off the side of the house

like a pixelated sheet from a cyber dream

that reveals the surprising texture of life

underneath. It makes me think that everything

might be pretense and illusion—precisely

in that order. Cause we pretend we don't see

what's always in front of us, screaming at us,

touching us, an ever-welcoming orgy of joy.

I think it probably scares us to admit that once

we knew this, we participated in the communion

with every aspect of reality in an endless game.

We build our illusion in order to make sense

of the pretense that we might ever be in control

of anything. But the world has a way of diffusing

all the different layers and colors we impose

upon it. The rain, perhaps, or simply the droning

passage of the seasons scrapes off our efficient

but ultimately futile labor. The flakes remain

glued to the wet grass, they become yet another

piece of the puzzle we can never hope to finish,

the beautiful, non-composting particles of decay.